


The Viral Detective

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Series: Greg Lestrade And The Adventure Of The Alternative Lifestyle [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, M/M, Poorly!Sherlock, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Sherlock is a terrible patient, but Night Nurse is good and Mycroft is even better.This is part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story.





	The Viral Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock. Or Mycroft for that matter. Pity. 
> 
> Can be read as a stand alone piece but is part of Greg Lestrade and the Adventure of the Alternative Lifestyle. No idea where this is set in this arc. Kinda fits anywhere after Sherlock's return.
> 
> We're still not sure where this came from but it's probably Sherlock's fault.
> 
> Feedback is welcome :)

The room had a peculiar smell, as all rooms did. Layer upon layer of occupants, contents, activities, and time. Paper, leather, roisin, old detergent, and dust; lingering traces of smoke, the metallic residue of electricity, unfamiliar chemicals, the unfortunate aromas from the cafe below, and, above it all, the new note. The high, thin hint of ketones which said no less clearly than the pallor, the gauntness, and the contents of the refrigerator that Sherlock had not been eating. And the sickly-sour tang which explained why. 

Disease. 

Prosaic, mundane disease. 

Flu. 

A commonplace, avoidable, horribly debilitating, and apparently personally offensive disease. Mycroft listened to his brother’s rambling complaint with the best grace he could muster, but there _were_ limits. 

“...miserable amount of mucus the human body can produce—” The peevish diatribe was interrupted by a violent paroxysm of sneezing, which ended in a pitiable groan, and Mycroft restrained a small smile. 

“You should have had your flu jab, little brother.”

A wadded-up tissue was launched irritably in his direction. “Why don’t you piss off and bother someone else?”

“Because I’m looking after you.” 

Sherlock started to huff irascibly, but the sound dissolved into a coughing fit; rales, rhonchi, and other indications of congestion, Mycroft noted, but less acute since Sherlock had been induced to recline on cushions rather than sprawl flat on the sofa. _And the Night Nurse should take effect soon._ “Do something useful, then,” Sherlock croaked. “Tea. And biscuits.”

Heaving a sigh, Mycroft went. 

The kitchen remained a disaster, in Mycroft’s estimation approximately seventeen days from requiring a hazmat intervention, and he shied away from too close an inspection of the chaotic array adorning the surfaces as he hunted out the kettle. _Now, why are you examining the amino acids in fingerprints? That’s what technicians are for._ A rustle and wheeze from the sofa announced Sherlock huddling deeper into his pile of cushions. 

"What do you want? You rarely visit when I’m unwell, and only ever grace me with your presence at this time of day of you need something. Your spies doubtlessly told you that I'm ill, so you’re aware that I'm not up to doing any of your **legwork**. So, the question remains: what do you want?" Another bout of coughing gripped him, and he dragged his dressing gown more tightly about himself, tousled, petulant, and curiously adorable. 

“You aren’t usually this ill.”

Peering owlishly at him over his shoulder, Sherlock focussed laboriously; Mycroft tracked the gaze skittering over his shoes and tie, and watched the thoughts form. 

"You've come from home, not work, so this is definitely a personal call." His brother’s fever-bright eyes narrowed. "Oh, you're **worried**. Don't fret so, Mycroft; if the idiots who appear in this drivel," he waved lethargically at the muted television and its lurid display of what Mycroft was faintly distressed to recognise as The Jeremy Kyle Show, "can survive influenza on a yearly basis, then I can." 

Mycroft forbore from commenting. 

“Where’s my tea?”

“Coming.” There was an alarming film on its surface, and none of the cups had been entirely clean, but he supposed that his brother would have developed an immunity to most of his local pathogens. He turned to the fridge in the hope rather than the expectation of usable milk.

“The bottle on the left; I'm growing cultures in the one on the right." 

That much was obvious at a glance, though cultures of _what_ was anyone’s guess. 

“So I observe." Returning to the sofa with his burdens of sustenance, Mycroft watched Sherlock shiver and endeavoured to quell a surge of frustration. “You shouldn’t neglect yourself.” 

Naturally, Sherlock's response to the display of fraternal concern was a roll of his eyes. “Irrelevant: influenza is a virus and those aren't caused by irregular habits or **neglect**." 

The dismissal may have been more persuasive, Mycroft felt, without the accompanying pathetic shiver. "No,” he said evenly, “but your recovery from the virus will be slowed. Really, hasn't John been through this with you? Nutrition and rest are not optional, even for us." 

“I'm resting now." A sweeping, if shaky, gesture took in his makeshift sickbed and dislodged the afghan which had been crumpled in his lap. "Look at me, doing restful things. My dear brother has even brought me tea and biscuits." 

Mycroft shook his head and deposited the cup and saucer on the coffee table, moving to help Sherlock sufficiently close to the vertical to drink without choking. The patient was clammy and his stained t-shirt clung damply; a pained moan escaped as he moved, and even that little exertion tired him. He leaned limply against Mycroft and clutched the cup in both hands when it was offered, biscuits entirely forgotten. 

“This place is a pigsty,” Mycroft informed him as he drank. “You should be staying with someone. Or at least let Mrs Hudson clean.” 

“It's **not** a pigsty: those are experiments and I can hardly trust Mrs Hudson not to dispose of something vital to my work. Anyway, where would you have me stay?" 

Sherlock would have been utterly mortified, in his brother’s expert opinion, had he been aware of how much more fretful than sarcastic he sounded. 

“I have a perfectly serviceable house,” Mycroft reminded him, patiently re-settling the afghan over the younger’s legs, which required no small degree of coordination given that he was also propping him up. “Even Greg's flat would be an improvement on this." 

“Greg won't thank me for passing this on, not when he has his daughters staying this weekend, and last time I stayed with you when I was ill you put a nurse on me." 

The half-empty cup settled in Sherlock’s lap, long fingers curling loosely about its handle, and the dark head lolled back onto Mycroft’s shoulder. There was something curiously comforting in the scent of _brother_ and the tickle of dishevelled curls brushing his neck. Sherlock’s free hand settled on Mycroft’s leg, absently smoothing the fabric of his trousers.

“Well, yes. You needed one." 

"I did not: you were being an overbearing ninny, as usual." 

"You had glandular fever and rubella. I was **not** being an overbearing ninny." 

"Were," Sherlock scowled and shifted to drink, failing to stifle a yawn. _And there we have the wonder of medication._

"I suppose we could always ask Mummy to come and stay with you," Mycroft mused mildly. Sherlock hissed at this dire threat and directed a narrow, glassy-eyed glare over his shoulder. 

"Don't you dare." 

"Drink your tea." 

"You had glandular fever and rubella," Sherlock parroted, the sharpness of the mimicry largely lost in his cup. "Hardly an excuse for putting **her** on me." 

"You were barely conscious for most of it, anyway." Which had probably been for the best, Mycroft considered: Sherlock had never responded well to seeing him worried, and he had been all but frantic. Those had been among the more stressful weeks of Mycroft’s life. 

Sherlock made a discontented noise and pressed closer, seeking warmth and comfort as he always had when unwell."You make passable tea," he mumbled, raising his drink again. "If you're ever evicted from the government, Speedy's would be glad to have you." 

"A fine compliment," Mycroft murmured, smiling faintly because it was, coming from a grouchy, feverish brother. He removed the empty cup from Sherlock’s slackened grasp and settled back into the sofa. "Do you remember when you had chicken pox?" 

"Of course I do: I wanted to pull my skin off and you wouldn’t let me." The sleepy belligerence over a decades-old resentment prompted a warm surge of unbearable fondness. 

"You were eight. You wouldn’t have Mummy in the room; you made me read you the entire Chronicles of Narnia, and you made me promise always to look after you when you were ill." 

“Mm. I r'member.” 

“I always will.”

Sherlock hummed again, leaning heavily against him, warm and trustful and finally comfortable; Mycroft thought for a moment that he had drifted off, but he stirred. “Have you got a car waiting?" 

He sounded almost painfully young, more open than he had been in years, and Mycroft dropped his voice low to respond, pressing a kiss to sweaty hair. "No, Sherlock. I have nowhere to be but here. Rest, little brother." 

Sherlock sighed, the last of his tension ebbing away, and slurred, ”Jus’ don’t go to tea with Mr Tumnus without me.” 

“I won’t,” Mycroft promised, folding both arms around the boneless form. He reached back into the depths of his memory for the right words, and drew a slow breath. “This is a story about something that happened long ago, when your grandfather was a child. It is a very important story because it shows how all the comings and goings between our own world and the land of Narnia first began..."


End file.
